


Not All That Glitters (Is Good For Your Health)

by comatosecombat



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fix-It, Laketown, Lasting Effects of the Ring, M/M, Mild Case of Gold Sickness, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3167582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comatosecombat/pseuds/comatosecombat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his attempt to distract Smaug from attacking Lake-town, Bilbo accidentally destroys the One Ring of Power, saves the day and brings peace on Middle-Earth.</p><p>When it comes to him and Thorin, that resolves absolutely nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly Tolkien has stated that the Ring can’t be destroyed by the following means. But since I’m a rebel at heart, I’ve decided to let that slide and do whatever I want, including ignoring the whole LotR trilogy (sorry, Aragorn). The premise might sound like utter crack, but I at least tried to make the story itself not so; this is more about dealing with the emotional aftermath of the Ring’s destruction and what it might mean to a selected group of people, isolated as they are from the rest of the world. Still, when it comes to Big Things That Happen, I firmly suggest not to overthink it, otherwise this will make even less sense than it already does.
> 
> I wrote the first draft of this fic in last April, back when we still knew next to nothing about BotFA, so it doesn’t include any actual spoilers, only a handful of ‘happy’ similarities. What I did borrow was a few lines of Smaug’s dialogue straight from the second movie as well as something Bilbo says to Gandalf at the beginning of FotR - as for those, the credit goes to where it’s due.

* * *

 

They were travelling along the secret pathway to Rivendell, when Bilbo caught up with Gandalf and asked, “So who is this Necromancer, exactly?”

Gandalf stopped so abruptly that Bilbo crashed against him and was then nearly run over by Bombur who happened to be the next in line. It triggered a chain reaction where one dwarf after another bumped into each other on the narrow path, causing an uproar that drowned out any stern words Gandalf might or might not have uttered about sneaky hobbits.

Once they were safely moving again, Gandalf muttered, “Didn’t your mother teach you that eavesdropping is considered rude? Furthermore, it’s potentially dangerous when there are wizards involved.”

Even if Bilbo thought that this was quite hypocritical coming from the likes of Gandalf, who practically made his living by meddling in the businesses of others, he chose not express this opinion out loud.

Instead, he pressed on. “If he lives at the other end of Mirkwood as Radagast says -" yet another piece of overheard information - "then what does he have to do with the dragon or any of this?”

Gandalf’s long-suffering sight indicated that he recognized a lost battle when he saw one. “Maybe nothing. Let us say that there are some who would find it convenient if this quest should fail and not all of them are after the treasure. That’s all I’m willing to say about this topic for now, and you should do well by putting that name off your mind for good.”

And for the time being and many days to come, Bilbo actually did.

 

Until -

“You seem familiar with my name, but I don't remember smelling your kind before,” Smaug mused, its voice a deathly curious rumble. “Who are you and where do you come from, may I ask?”

Bilbo opened his mouth - and then pinched shut.

Within a span of seconds, he had a small revelation. It was, in fact, the very same revelation he had had while he was sneaking through the pathway further into the Mountain; that all of this - from the moment he had left his house, to the instant when he deduced how to open the hidden door - had been a terrible mistake.

In all honesty, he blamed Thorin and his blasted charms. Some moments before, the three of them - he, Thorin and Balin - had been standing together on the upper level, going through the plan once more. It would have been much more encouraging if there actually had been a _plan_ to begin with. At this point Bilbo wasn’t even that picky about the precise nature of that plan, as long as it would resolve one of the following dilemmas:

One: How to kill a dragon, who was thousands of years old and approximately the size of a small village.

Two: How (if the previous wasn’t a possibility, as no doubt was the case) finding the Arkenstone would help them with anything, unless the purpose was to only hasten their demolition.

For now, it seemed like the only farsighted planning on the Company’s side had involved hiring Bilbo and his role as the reckless idiot, willing to go waltzing into what would certainly be a fiery death. How on all Middle-Earth had that happened, _well_ -

Bilbo suddenly felt Thorin’s hand on his shoulder; from the corner of his eye he could see how Balin instantly found a patch of rock irresistibly interesting and bent down to examine it with obvious exaggeration.

“While I have nothing but trust in your success,” Thorin rumbled low next to Bilbo’s ear, “I understand if you have some doubts. It would be foolish not to.”

For someone who was so close to achieving his life’s mission, Thorin seemed oddly calm. Meanwhile, Bilbo was drenched in cold sweat and kept shivering - from nerves or cold, he wasn’t sure. He wanted to tell Thorin, now more than ever, that it simply wasn’t fair of him to be - well, to be _him_. Bilbo wanted to throw a tantrum, in the same manner he imagined he had when he was nothing but a wee hobbitling, and scream how Thorin had no right to barge into his life like a hungry squirrel into a stocked pantry, leaving everything in disarray and most of all, making Bilbo the kind of person who was willing to throw himself into the jaws of death (quite literally) and apparently sneak into the lair of a dragon with nothing on his person but his wits.

In the same breath he would have liked to enquire (speaking this time to no one particular), if this was how all those other hobbits back at home had felt, when he had witnessed them making utter fools of themselves by weaving crowns made of flowers and then blushing furiously when it came the time to give those presents to that special someone. Bilbo had never seen the appeal and had thought himself above such nonsense.

In that regard, fate most certainly had a wicked sense of humor.

“Bilbo?” Thorin’s voice shook him out of these thoughts.

He cleared his throat. “I’m - fine. Absolutely fine. And I’ve already made up my mind. I’m going down there.”

“Just don’t let it enthrall you. Dragons can seize one’s mind with just mere words.”

Despite the nonexistent light, Thorin’s eyes looked like blazing coals, and before he knew it, a peal of nervous laughter had escaped Bilbo’s lips. _That’s it_ , he heard a resolute voice inside his head say. _I’m mad. This is madness. Is it normal to be driven this mad when -_

Later, Bilbo couldn’t quite explain how at the time it had seemed easier to just leave and go face the dragon, rather than to stay there with Thorin any longer. At least he didn’t have to worry about Smaug putting its spell on him, given that he already appeared to be under another’s.

Not that Smaug seemed to have much interest in overpowering him with words: Bilbo currently found it inspecting him in a way one might look at an especially irritating fly. In the back of his mind, Bilbo knew that he was only moments away from being swapped to death or roasted alive; whereas he was currently so cross with Thorin that idea of his demise actually brought him a sense of twisted satisfaction, given how greatly Thorin might blame himself if that should happen, Bilbo didn’t really fancy the idea of dying that instant. The dragon was still waiting for an answer and he deemed it wisest to play for time, at least until a more resounding plan came to mind.

_But._

Bilbo had been so close to babbling some incoherent nonsense about riding barrels and bringing luck, all of which would lead the dragon to the same conclusion: that he had had help. Try as he might, there was no version of the truth available that didn’t cast some blame on any party involved, let it be the dwarves, the people of Lake-town or the elves. It seemed that the dreadful prophecy was destined to fulfill itself, dooming all lands nearby to a fiery inferno.

And that is when Gandalf’s words, like a faint echo, came back to him.

Before he could think about it any longer, Bilbo heard himself blurt, “The Necromancer sent me.”

Smaug, who had been idly toying with a golden statue approximately the size of Bilbo’s kitchen, paused. “And who, pray tell, is this Necromancer you speak of?”

Desperately trying to scavenge his memory for any details, Bilbo stammered, “He - He lives in Dol Guldur. They say nothing grows where He has once walked, that all life fleets from Him and the rivers He has touched run dry.  He’s the Lord of Spiders, the Terror of Wizards, the Ender of All Life.”

Here, he paused to take a shaky breath. Considering that he knew next to nothing about this fearsome Necromancer, Bilbo was suddenly very proud of his elaborate description. Luckily the name was quite self-explaining; he very much doubted that someone with a title like that was known for his taste in ales and love for nature.

Smaug slithered closer, peering at Bilbo between two pillars. “And what proof do I have that such an enemy even exists? Am I supposed to take your word for it, little thief, when I already know how traitorous you can be.”

Luckily this time Smaug had already provided him with the answer.

“I walked here unseen, didn’t I? Here -“ As he spoke, Bilbo dug into his pocket, his fingers closing around the Ring. As they did, a sudden, almost ravenous urge to simply slip it back on overcame him; with considerable effort he managed to fight it down and held the Ring up for Smaug to see. “You said it yourself that I was carrying something special, something made of gold. Well, here it is. My master gave it to me, so that I could bring you proof of His powers and give taste of what lies ahead. When He chooses to strike, you won’t even see Him coming before it’s too late.”

Maybe it was the mental image of working as a mouthpiece for such a liege, but suddenly he felt quite sure of himself. After all, he _was_ the shadow that moved in the night unseen and unheard, the silver-tongued spy; all this, confirmed by the Ring’s solid weight in his hand.

Just then, yet another sly notion overtook him.  _Two birds with one stone_ , as his father Bungo used to say. Willing down a self-indulged smirk, Bilbo stated, “He will destroy you. He - and Azog the Defiler.”

Smaug’s huge eyes looked like they might bulge out of its head from sheer annoyance; it was obvious that the name didn’t ring any bells. So Bilbo added, this time almost pleasantly, “The pale white orc. He’s my lord’s general, the leader of His army.”

Bilbo knew instantly that he had crossed a line: Smaug was now practically vibrating with rage, making the chamber fill with the jingle of coins, as it stamped its feet and spread its enormous wings. Bilbo was forced to take cover under the nearby stairs, as the dragon’s tail went swooping past him, knocking down pillars and walls in its wake.

“Lies, filthy lies!” Smaug bellowed. “How dare you come to my kingdom - _my_ kingdom - to spill such empty threats?! No man is match to my power! My teeth are swords, my claws are spears! I, and I alone – am Death!”

“No, _dead_ is the only thing you’ll be, once my Master unleashes his powers!” Bilbo shouted, reckless. He was crawling towards the opening on his right, hoping that Smaug was distracted enough not to notice him. While making the dragon mad was possibly not his smartest decision, he knew he had no alternative if he wanted his plan to work.

While Smaug continued to trash around, shouting obscenities at him, Bilbo made his way on top of the stairs. Moments after his confrontation with the dragon he had spotted the Arkenstone and followed it as it had been drifting atop the sea of coins. Finally it had landed on the ledge where he, too, was now standing on.

And then Smaug chose to swing its tail against the nearest wall, making everything shake and Bilbo grapple for support.

In that moment, the Ring slipped from his pocket.

Bilbo was caught in a strange stillness, as time itself seemed to slow down. Everything narrowed down to the two objects in his line of sight: his Ring, a few steps away on the right; the Arkenstone, a little further on the left. In the space that fell between them, he saw Smaug’s enormous jaws opening, the flames already climbing up its throat.

One clear thought pierced his consciousness: _I’m going to die for a piece of jewelry like some dwarf._

And then he made his choice, and dived.

By the time his fingers closed around his mark and he managed to roll aside, tumbling down from the ledge and into the pile of gold below, everything was in flames. Bilbo could only burrow further under the treasure, hoping that it would spare him from the roasting happening above. At some point he felt a flash of sharp pain piercing his chest, like a puncture from an invisible dagger, but the sudden feeling was gone as quickly as it came and left only a dull ache in its wake.

Distantly, Bilbo could hear Smaug roar in dismay. _Revenge -_ something, something - _the Necromancer, then we’ll see_ \- and again, some more knocked down walls and coins flying every which way. It sounded like one of those storms that sometimes swept over the Shire during springtime, now concealed inside the Mountain’s walls. Bilbo could only hope that they would hold.

To his relief he soon became aware that the sounds of the rampage were now growing farther away. When he finally risked a peek from his hiding place, it was to catch the last glimpse of Smaug’s tail, as it disappeared from sight three halls away. Based on the vague description Balin had given him of the place, Bilbo could only assume that it was heading outside.

After that, it didn’t take long for the others to come rushing in. Thorin was the first, and that is how he came upon Bilbo, who was now sitting in the middle of the scorched part of the hall, where the floor was still almost too hot stand on.

Thorin quickly navigated between piles of melted gold and nearly knocked Bilbo over in his hurry to seize his upper arms. “What happened? We saw the dragon take flight from the main gates and we thought -” Noticing the look on Bilbo’s face, he halted. “What’s the matter - are you hurt?”

 _Yes._ That was the first response that came to Bilbo’s mind. Truthfully, it was quite the opposite: there were only some minor scratches and bruises on him, and the jacket he had acquired from Lake-town was now burned beyond repair. But for some unexplainable reason he felt more hollowed and wearier than ever before, the taste of ash and pile sitting heavy on his tongue. As he looked into Thorin’s eyes, he found himself suddenly hoping he would simply leave him be.

Only when Thorin repeated his question, Bilbo shook his head. “No. At least I don’t think so. No thanks to you lot, that is.”

Now it was Dwalin who stood before Bilbo. “What happened with the worm? Where’s it going?”

“To Dol Guldur, I hope. Still, I don’t think it will take long for it to realize that it has been lied to. We should warn Bard and the others, tell them to get the - the wind lance, if that’s what it’s called - ready.” Bilbo casted a somewhat pointless look around. “I don’t suppose there are any black arrows lying around?”

Despite the notion that his nephews were in possible danger, Thorin made no attempt to move. Even his hands stayed firmly on Bilbo. “You sent Smaug after the Necromancer?” he asked, clearly amazed.

Bilbo blinked; apparently someone else had been pestering Gandalf with questions as well.

“Yes,” he confirmed, growing impatient. “And Azog. One less thing for us to worry about, I think. Now please, we don’t have much time...“

Thorin finally pulled away, although somewhat reluctantly. A band of other dwarves heaved Bilbo up and on his feet.

“We should send word to Bard,” Balin suggested, still eying worriedly in the direction where Smaug had disappeared. “One of Roäc’s could carry it.”

Bilbo frowned. “And who is -“

“He’s the leader of the ravens of Ravenhill. Most of them don’t speak the common tongue like they did in the days of my grandfather, but they still understand it well enough. They approached us when we were waiting for your return,” Thorin explained. “Now quickly, get me a parchment and something to write with.”

“Here!” Ori dashed forward with a journal in hand, shaking in clear excitement now that his area of expertise was finally found crucial.

As Thorin kneeled down to write a short message, Bilbo peered over his shoulder. “By the way, Bard's son was right: there _is_ a weak spot under its stomach, where a scale has fallen off.” Somehow, he couldn’t keep the snidely tone from his voice. “Maybe you should tell them to aim for that.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, it actually was Bard who managed to slay Smaug once and for all.

Their warning had arrived in time: when the dragon had returned from its detour to Dol Guldur and then apparently decided to give a reminder of its power to its nearest neighbors as well, the town had been ready. Although Bilbo and the others didn’t know it at the time, a massive battle took place in the city. Many archers tried their best in piercing Smaug with their arrows, but finally (with some pointers on dwarven weaponry from Kíli) Bard had made use of his hidden black arrow and killed the beast. Its body now laid on the eastern shore of the lake, where no one dared to approach it.

Naturally Thorin was overjoyed that his kin (Bofur and Óin included) were safe. He was so focused on the fact that Smaug was finally gone, that he seemed to completely miss how badly Lake-town had weathered the dragon’s attack. Based on the description Fíli had sent by one of the ravens, the damage had been heavy and the death-toll high. According to him, a Silvan captain named Tauriel had been there when the battle took place and had now left to retrieve help from Mirkwood.

Despite his earlier relief, Thorin now seemed to have more pressing matters at hand.

“The Arkenstone,” the newly (self-) appointed King Under the Mountain sighed, after it was clear that all members of the Company were in one piece and that the dragon wasn’t coming back. “Can it truly be lost?”

“Actually, about that…”

As he was speaking, Bilbo retrieved something from his pocket. He slowly pulled apart the dirty handkerchief, revealing the shimmering jewel within; despite the flecks of ash speckled across its surface, the Arkenstone was otherwise as impeccable as ever. _Unlike my melted Ring_ , Bilbo thought bitterly. After Smaug’s flames, there had been nothing left of it.

For once Thorin looked like he was at loss for words. Carefully, like he was handling breakable glass, he took the stone from Bilbo’s hand. For the longest of time he simply stared at it, lost in whatever it was that he saw in the depths of the endless prisms - and then he slipped it inside his pocket and lifted his gaze to meet Bilbo’s. There was such a turmoil of emotions in his eyes that Bilbo didn’t even realize he had taken a step back, before Thorin himself stepped forward, closing the distance between them once more. He seized Bilbo by his shoulders and held him there with an iron grip, leaving him no chance to move.

“You have led us safely to our home and tricked the enemy by ensuring its defeat,” Thorin said, his deep voice resonating from the stone walls. “And now, you have delivered me this. All the gold inside this mountain can’t compare to the size of the debt that I owe you.”

Bilbo was afraid that any moment now, his own heart would simply stammer out of his chest, so rabidly it was thundering against his ribs. Despite the sheer enormity of the space around them, the world was suddenly narrowed down to the same breath of air shared between them. For the first time after the Ring had slipped from his grasp, Bilbo felt something akin to joy.

Somewhere behind Thorin’s back, Balin coughed gently. The sound was followed by Dwalin, who bellowed, “Well, by my beard, look at the size of _those_ axes!”, and quickly shepherded the herd of dwarves towards the weapons chamber on their right.

Thorin and Bilbo were left to stare at the sight of their retrieving backs. After a moment, Thorin cleared his throat. “Come,” he said, giving Bilbo a private smile. “Let us see what else you have earned us.”

After making sure that his feet still worked, Bilbo followed, feeling rather like a dog on an invisible leash.

 

* * *

 

The halls of Thorin’s ancestors turned out to be quite something. To say that they were big would have been the understatement of the Third Age, given that even after a day of walking, they had only uncovered the few halls on the ground level. Beneath the floors, Thorin explained to him, the kingdom went on for miles. Despite the destruction caused by Smaug, the sheer level of architecture was enough to take Bilbo’s breath away.

Then there was, of course - the treasure.

The dwarves’ reactions to seeing it in all its glory varied greatly: Balin, Dwalin, Dori, Bombur and Glóin merely stared at it in silent awe, unable to describe in words what they were feeling; Nori was crying with glee; Bifur was on his knees and kissing the ground, sometimes shouting out various words in Khuzdûl. The worst of them was poor Ori, who had taken one look at the riches ahead of him, and then fainted.

Thorin was regarding the gold with an expression that could only be described as ‘fond’. “It really is something, isn’t it,” he murmured, so quietly that only Bilbo was able to hear him.

“I guess that’s one way of putting it,” Bilbo hummed, somewhat reluctantly. Seeing the smile Thorin had until now preserved only for him being targeted at piles of coins was suddenly off-putting.

Behind them, Nori was pulling Dori into a bear-hug, yelling into the other dwarf’s ear - “We’re rich, brother! Rich!” - and for once, Dori looked like didn’t mind the least.

 

* * *

 

Thorin set his temporary throne room in one of the smaller halls by the main gate. As the other dwarves busied themselves by throwing together the most elaborate feast they could conjure from the supplies at hand (Bombur had even emerged from somewhere with golden plates and utensils), Thorin pulled Bilbo aside.

“I want to give your something I found in the royal treasure chamber,” he said. “You can take it as a personal thank you from me.”

Fearing that it was perhaps another weapon or some piece of jewelry he really had no use for, Bilbo hesitated. “That’s, um – that’s nice?”

But when Thorin unraveled the bundle he was carrying, it was to reveal something that looked like it was woven from pure silver and possibly starlight.

“A shirt?” Bilbo laughed, unable to contain his mirth. “A whole mountain full of gold, and you want to give me a _shirt_?”

“It’s not just some piece of garment,” Thorin grumbled, clearly affronted by Bilbo’s obnoxiousness. “It is _mithril_ – stronger than any steel, yet it weighs next to nothing. The material is considered very rare indeed, and very valuable.”

Bilbo suddenly felt ashamed of his previous reaction. As he took the exquisite chainmail shirt from Thorin, he made sure his appreciation sounded genuine. “Thank you, Thorin. It’s beautiful.”

His eyes still cast downwards, Thorin answered, this time almost coyly, “Since you have a habit for getting yourself in trouble, it would ease my mind to know that you’re wearing it.”

And what was he supposed to say to that? Thorin showing such concern for him was something that just the day before would have made him trip over on his own feet; now, he only mustered a weak smile in return. Bilbo held the shirt with both hands, hoping with all his heart that he could return the sentiment without feeling like there was something weighing on his mind. As it was, he simply took his time folding the gift, speaking at the same time. “I only wish others were as fortunate with your generosity.”

Thorin heaved a great sigh. “The dragon is gone and Erebor is ours,” he summed, not really annoyed, Bilbo realized, but almost pleading. “Must you ruin this moment with such foul mood?”

Bilbo pinched his mouth shut and for once, said nothing. There seemed to be no point in arguing, especially since it wasn’t all that clear to himself why he was feeling the way he was. Even though his previous choice between the two prized objects had been somewhat subconscious in nature, deep down he had known that by saving the Arkenstone he was salvaging a piece of Thorin as well; the Heart of the Mountain might as well be the heart he had left behind all those years ago. Maybe that made him the biggest fool there ever was, but Bilbo had made his decision, thinking then that Thorin’s gratitude was all that he could ever wish for.

Now, it only seemed oddly insufficient, compared to the loss of his precious Ring.

It wasn’t like he was unhappy that Erebor was back in the hands of its rightful ruler - yet a voice, much like Gandalf or Elrond’s, kept whispering in his ear how Thorin’s priorities told a much darker story about his true nature. Smaug might be dead, but Bilbo feared the sickness still lingered in its wake. Here they were, rolling around in riches and celebrating, while down in the valley people were carving coffins out of the charred wood of their former homes.

Despite there now being many Erebor-related topics to pick from, Thorin seemed like he wanted to have an entirely different conversation with him. Once again it only served as further proof of the fact that Thorin had the worse timing in the world, since Bilbo suddenly couldn’t bear the thought. So, that night, with the sounds of the feast still echoing in the background, he went to lie down long before anyone else.

Eventually he drifted to sleep, dreaming that he was crawling around in a bleak cave that seemed faintly familiar, as the cries of some wounded animal kept piercing the air; the last thing he knew before deeper sleep claimed him, was the sudden realization that the sounds were actually coming from his own mouth.

 

* * *

 

After a series of dark dreams, Bilbo woke up late the next morning, only to discover that he felt even worse than the day before. In the bleak light of day, the great halls of Erebor were somehow reduced to ashy corridors and that alone was enough to set Bilbo’s nerves on edge. Dragging his feet, he finally made his way into the temporary throne room, only to find Thorin holding court with a pair of ravens.

He was quick to discover that Thorin, too, was definitely not in as high spirits as before.

“Can you believe this? Now they’re asking for a  _ransom_ for my nephews!” With nearly enough force to knock him over, Thorin pushed the letter into Bilbo’s hands.

 _“'Bard, on the behalf of the men of Lake-town, greets the King Under the Mountain’ -_ and so on and so on - _‘We are eagerly waiting to resume our former trade with Erebor and so, as an act of good will on your behalf, would like to request some payment in advance, in order to repair the damage done to our city by the dragon. On his part, King Thranduil has already promised to deliver logs and other building materials for our aid. Meanwhile, we are glad to ensure the continued wellbeing of your kin who reside here at this time.’_ ” Bilbo lifted his eyes from the parcel, frowning. “There isn’t anything here about any ransom.”

“Not in so many words. But don’t think I won’t recognize a bargain when I see one. The Mountain has been ours for a mere day and already others are conspiring to get their hands on the gold.” Thorin twisted around so fiercely that the ravens took flight. “Vultures, all of them!”

Bilbo regarded him skeptically, crossing his arms. After the ill-rested night, he really wasn’t in the mood for suffering through any dwarven temper tantrums. “Let’s not get melodramatic here. No one is barging through the gates, trying to take what’s rightfully yours.”

But Thorin didn’t seem to hear him anymore, regarding the walls around him like he was seeing something far beyond them. “When we were wandering the wilderness, homeless and desperate, it was the promise of this day that kept us going. The blood of my people is on these coins and it is my duty so see that none should go to waste.” He turned his eyes to Bilbo, almost sneering. “But of course, you’re no dwarf. It was stupid of me to think you would understand such things.”

Now was Bilbo’s turn to lose his temper.

“Hang on, yesterday you were saying something about owing me a great deal! Or did that already slip your mind, given you were so busy counting your _prey!_ ”

The venomous manner Bilbo spat the last word nearly surprised himself. It certainly surprised Thorin, who staggered back, aghast, and now seemed to regard him in a whole new light. A great storm was brewing behind his darkening eyes.

“Do not question my honor, _thief,_ for it is you I have promised payment, not to these people who come haggling at my door!” he snarled.

By now, their row was quickly gathering an audience. From the corner of his eye Bilbo could see the heads of various dwarves peeking from the doorway. He knew that things were escalating at worrying speed and that perhaps even his own sudden fury should alarm him, but for once, he was too angry to care.

“They’re not asking for money because they’re greedy, Thorin - it’s because Smaug destroyed their town and they don’t have the funds to rebuild it!” Bilbo shouted. “The elves have nothing to do with that!”

“Tell that to your friend Bard," Thorin scoffed. "He seems awfully busy making friends with the Woodland Realm.”

“You know what,” Bilbo uttered icily. He knew just then that he had had enough; he was weary to his bones and homesick, and felt like he had been stretched too thin for far too long. The joy of the adventure was over; now, there was only greed. “Maybe I will. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have my fourteenth share of the treasure so I can be on my way.”

That, at least, seemed to strike a chord with Thorin. “And what, may I ask, are you planning on doing with it?” he inquired after a moment, not fully managing to mask his astonishment.

“Not that it’s any concern of yours, but I intent to give it to Bard and his people, seeing that I have no use for it. I’ve had enough of this Mountain and all the misery it ever seems to bring. I’m leaving.”

“But Bilbo -“ Now Balin had finally stepped forward, but was silenced by Bilbo’s upraised palm.

“I expect my share to be delivered to the town by the end of the week,” Bilbo said sternly. “Good day.”

And with that, he went to pick up his things, and then marched down the stairs and out of the gates.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until some miles down the road that his mind caught up with him. Firstly, the night was quickly falling and he had no shelter, nor did he carry any food with him. Secondly, even if he managed to get to the lake, how was he supposed to cross it? Given everything that had happened with Smaug, he very much doubted that the boat they had used before was still secured at the shore. With the water temperature being what it was, swimming definitely wasn’t an option.

Up until that moment his wounded pride had numbed everything and made him functional; now, as he exhaled, all fight finally left him. Bilbo felt like his insides were collapsing in on themselves, and without even fully realizing it, he had fallen down on his knees in the gravel. Not having to take another step ever again in his life seemed like a blessing. Around him the lands were barren and lifeless, and as a gust of icy wind blew through him, freezing him to his very core, it seemed like the most reasonable thing in the world to just stay there and let the nearing twilight settle his fate once and for all.

Then suddenly, a rabidly moving spot appeared in the horizon.

At first Bilbo thought it was some kind of a wild animal, an unknown beast from the mountains. It wasn’t until he heard the familiar voice call out his name – "Bilbo Baggins, what in Took’s name have you done!” - that he recognized the two wizards and their peculiar way of transport.

For someone making his entrée in a sled pulled by an army of rabbits, Gandalf managed to look possibly thunderous. His ever-so familiar features were twisted in such a wrathful expression that Bilbo found himself hoping that it had been some hungry beast after all. He shot a pleading look at Radagast, but for the first time ever, even he looked firm – and sober for that matter.

“What do you mean by ‘what have I done’?” Bilbo asked wearily. “Survived a dragon for one thing.” _And got myself kicked out, because apparently Thorin Oakenshield is even a bigger idiot than I previously thought._ He decided to keep that last piece of information to himself.

“I’m not talking about Smaug, although we will come back to that in time.” Gandalf was now towering over him like an extremely imitating oak - or any other kind of tree that didn’t happen to have any unfortunate namesakes. Bilbo frowned; _Focus._

Gandalf pulled back an inch. Then he said, “No, I’m talking about how by some miracle you managed to destroy the One Ring of Power and by doing so, save the entity of Middle-Earth from its inevitable doom.”

Bilbo heard the words, but oddly enough, they seemed to come from some place very far away. He scrunched his nose and shook his head a little, almost hearing something rattling loose inside his skull. “I’m sorry, but could you repeat that last part? Because I thought you said -“

The end of that sentence was lost when Gandalf - unexpectedly laughing so hard that tears were trickling from his eyes - bent down and engulfed him in a muffling embrace.

With his face buried deep in the Wizard’s beard, Bilbo could hear an odd thumping noise echoing around them that sounded rather like clapping; it took him some time to understand that the sound originated from the colony of rabbits, now stomping the ground with their feet in clear excitement.

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

Apparently the Ring was evil.

Prior to this journey Bilbo might have expressed some doubts whether a piece of jewelry was capable of such animosity, but at this point he had now such disbeliefs. After all, he had heard and then witnessed first-hand the foul effect the riches of Erebor had had on certain members of the line of Durin, and then there were of course his personal experiences to consider, mainly with Gollum and - well, that _incident_ in Mirkwood, with the unfortunate crab-thing. There was also the lingering feeling still lodged inside his chest, like an arrowhead left behind, that made it hard for him to even apprehend how the Ring was now permanently out of his reach.

On a basic level, Bilbo could understand the concept. Still, no matter how elaborately Gandalf kept describing the horrible fate the Ring’s powers might have brought upon all races, there was one other thing that instinctively took the forefront when it came to relief.

As one of its last acts, Smaug had laid waste to Azog and his army of orcs. Without any of them knowing (except for Gandalf, who, according to himself, had been _"rather apprehended at that time")_  there actually had been a group of hundreds marching towards Erebor. In truth, the army was already in disarray as Smaug had arrived, and thus, setting everything in its sight in flames was like picking fish from a barrel. Once Smaug was finished, there had only been a few lucky survivors, who had scattered on sight, as the dragon continued its flight towards its ultimate destination.

Once it had reached it, it had become clear that the victory was already achieved: the Necromancer (Gandalf had given him some other names as well, but Bilbo was having enough trouble to remember everything as it were, so he had simply forgotten about those) was no more. Satisfied by its enemy’s cowardice, Smaug had returned back home - and got itself slain in the process.

According to Gandalf, there were celebrations taking place all across Middle-Earth, and endless song and dance was heard throughout the kingdoms. Naturally all races had different things to be grateful of: the elves and men rejoiced the Necromancer’s ultimate defeat and the safety of their borders being restored, now that orcs and other evils were no longer a threat; in addition to that, the dwarves had Thorin’s success to consider.

Naturally every aspect of the far-away happiness was convoyed to Bilbo by Gandalf’s lengthy descriptions. While he had no doubts that the people of Lake-town were equally pleased about the turnout, it was little hard for them engage in any impulsive party-planning, considering the current state of their town.

As Bilbo walked alongside Gandalf between the badly burned buildings, listening to the Wizard’s optimistic portrayal of the days to come, he often found himself wishing he could lower his voice. The people were still in mourning, and various cries of misery and pain could still be heard echoing throughout the streets. It felt like such a disgrace, Bilbo thought to himself bleakly, to be talking about the future, when everything around them still lingered in the shadows.

What bothered him most of all was how Gandalf seemed to be in the opinion that all the good that had happened was Bilbo’s doing, when in truth, he knew fully well that ushering Smaug towards Dol Guldur _and_ sacrificing his Ring in order to save Thorin’s beloved Arkenstone had been merely a gamble. He very much preferred to belittle his role in the chain of events, to avoid the unwanted attention.

Two days after everything had taken place, Bilbo tried expressing this wish to Gandalf.

“You slayed an army of orcs with the help of our enemy, destroyed the Ring of Power _and_ prevented the start of another war by giving away your share of the gold to those in need,” Gandalf summed up slowly. His bushy eyebrows had climbed so high that they disappeared beneath the rim of his hat. “And now you say you want none of the credit?”

“I wasn’t trying to be a hero!” Bilbo exclaimed, frustrated beyond belief. “Half of the time I wasn’t even aware that there was a bigger picture involved. I was just trying to save my neck, or distract the dragon, and then I was angry at Thorin for -“

Gandalf, ever the opinionated, cut him off sternly. “It seems to me like you have done a lot of things to be proud of. It’s not easy to stand strong in the face of peril, especially if that threat comes in the form of a friend.”

That last comment left a clear ringing in the air. Although they hadn’t really discussed it, Bilbo was under the impression that there had been some stern words exchanged between the Wizard and Thorin as well.

When Gandalf finally continued, it was with a notably gentler tone. “The lands are at peace, Bilbo. I suggest you enjoy your part in the makings of that.”

Bilbo still felt like arguing, but eventually he decided to let the topic drop. If Gandalf wanted to think that he had had some noble motive all along, then that was his business; in his own mind he knew the selfish truth of things, and that truth prevented him from taking part in any celebrations.

Besides - even though Gandalf was far wiser than Bilbo could ever hope to be, something told him that what he was feeling now, in all its complexity, was beyond the things wizards were capable of. They were made for the bigger scheme of things, and heartaches of the hobbit nature were definitely not among of those.

 

* * *

 

As the newly-elected leader of Lake-town, Bard and his family were now living at the town hall; Master and his servant were perished to one of the fishing barracks at the edge of the town. Bard had offered his old house for Bilbo to stay and - given that he really had nowhere else to go - he had gladly accepted. For the time being Fíli and Kíli were staying there as well, since the latter claimed he was still too weak to travel.

To Bilbo, who had a long history of avoiding annoying relatives, that sounded much like an excuse. “Don’t you think your uncle will be cross with you for not joining him in your reclaimed home?”

“The Mountain isn’t going anywhere, is it?” Kíli’s smile had been hollow. “Besides, something tells me he will be in a bad mood, no matter what anyone’s actions are,” he said mysteriously, leaving it at that.

Luckily Bard’s house had been spared by the fires, and between the three of them, it didn’t take long to fix the damage that was done by the orc-raid. While Bilbo had his own suspicions about the times when Kíli mysteriously disappeared for the night, only to return in the morning with a dreamy expression plastered on his face and blabbering about stars, Gandalf was their only regular visitor. Every once in a while the Wizard stopped by for tea, before then ascending back to holding counsel between the men and elves. Despite there now being peace between all races, it seemed that a lot of things still needed solving and many of them were of the official nature. Soon, Gandalf was expected to travel to meet something (or someone) he kept referring to as the White Council.

Before he went, Gandalf always took note to ask Bilbo to come along, but time after time, he politely declined; as far as he was concerned, he had done his share of world saving and politicizing. Now, he only wanted to crawl into a proper bed and never get up, hoping that once he woke up, he would find himself back in his own bed in Bag End and realize that all of this had been just a bad dream.

Apparently Bofur had his own thoughts about that notion.

After it was clear that Smaug was gone and Erebor was in safe hands, Bofur and Óin had travelled to join the rest of the Company in the Mountain. Now, two weeks later, Bofur was evidently back and barged in uninvited, finding Bilbo still in bed despite the lateness of the hour.

“Bilbo, Bilbo, Bilbo,” Bofur sighed, as he pulled aside the curtains of Bilbo’s bedroom; the sudden light made his eye sting. “What ever should we do with you?”

“What do you mean?” Bilbo couldn’t help but ask, annoyance clear in his voice. He was perfectly happy where he was at the moment, and that was under two sets of blankets, waiting for Fíli and Kíli to return with the makings of their breakfast (or perhaps it was now a late lunch, given the time).

Bofur hopped on the bed and leaned back on his elbows. “You saved us all and helped us reclaim our home, yet you here you are, wasting away in the dark like some wilting flower.” He made an unhappy clinking noise with his tongue. “It’s as if you never left that cozy hole of yours.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Bilbo bristled. “In case you haven’t noticed, things _have_ changed. Now there are families starving around me, people without homes or proper shelter -“

 “- and fine job you’re doing, helping them by lying prone and eating away your sorrows,” Bofur concluded. His tone wasn’t exactly unkind, but as usual, it was brutal in its honesty. “You of all should know that I’m not blaming you for any of it, especially since it was you who gave away your share of the treasure for them to have their bread ‘n butter. All I’m saying is that maybe it would do you some good if you came back to Erebor to – to sort things out.”

Bilbo allowed his head fall back into the pillow with an audible thump. It was true that Thorin had kept his word: few days after his own arrival, Bard had come to inform Bilbo that many chests full of gold and silver had been brought to town; by what means, Bilbo had no idea. Despite him having serious doubts whether the sum actually was one fourteenth of Erebor’s wealth, the sheer amount of gold was still staggering and more than enough to please the locals. As for Bilbo, seeing it all only made his stomach turn.

As he lay there, staring at the well-worn ceiling above, Bilbo wondered how he could ever explain to Bofur the reasoning behind his unwillingness to make amends, and how easily it now seemed like he was just being unreasonably cruel. The town around them was in ashes, its people scattered and broken. Just yesterday at the market he had seen a small girl - thin as a needle, hands and neck bare despite the chilling cold - steal an apple from one of the stands; witnessing such things, he considered them to be a living testament of Thorin’s greed, of the sorrow and shortage it brought in its wake.

Sometimes Bilbo wondered if he was staying - not because he had no means of getting home before spring - but because living among the people Thorin had wronged helped him to focus on his anger, rather than making him taking on account everything he had lost. Like a festering wound, the bitterness had taken root within him, and he refused to let it wither.

As if sensing his thoughts, Bofur chose that moment to say, “It’s just – well, it feels to me like you’re doing some sort of penance. Like you’re punishing yourself for something.”

Bilbo turned his head so he could see the ever-gray sky through the window, painfully different from the one he associated with home. He knew that by now, he could probably draw the outlines of the Mountain even with his eyes closed. _I was a fool,_ he wanted to say, _fool of a Took, just like Gandalf used to call me. I was so eager to prove myself worthy, and look at where that landed me._

And then Bofur added, his voice low, “Thorin’s been asking about you.”

In the silence that followed, they could hear the front door opening, filling the space with the sound of Fíli and Kíli bickering about the proper way of cooking an egg.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Bilbo only said, “Then give the King Under the Mountain my regards.”

With that, he turned his back on Bofur and willed himself back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

The days grew ever longer and the temperature kept dropping. It had been a month when Bilbo finally found it in himself to roll out of bed, gradually coming out of his slumber. As he did, he was more than little surprised to learn that by Bard’s word, Fíli was now namely in charge of the reconstruction of the city. Together with the builders, he drew plans for new buildings and revisited older ones, making sure they were structurally sound and insulated with care, given the particularly cold winter that lay ahead of them. Once the ice would melt, there was to be a new port to replace the old one. Fíli also informed Bilbo that there had even been some talk of rebuilding the City of Dale as well.

Whereas Fíli liked to stay within the confines of the town, Kíli had no patience for it, save for the occasions he was helping his brother. Once he was finally up from his sickbed and on his feet, he regularly took part in the town’s hunting parties as they ventured into Mirkwood, joined fishermen at the crack of dawn when they went to haul their nets and - most peculiarly - took an avid interest in nature. It was how Bilbo, being perhaps the only person in the whole town to ever own an actual garden, came to find himself answering the most elaborate questions about plants, trees and all things green. Kíli justified this curiosity by saying that he merely had some interest in specific types of wood (“For, you know – woodwork.”) and that - come spring - he was curious to see if they could recultivate some of the nearby lands, now that Smaug’s reign had ended. Still, the look on Fíli’s face during his brother’s explanations was always a little too knowing, and in one point, the book on Elvish Bilbo had come across during his raid in the town’s archives went missing from his bedside table.

Not that Bilbo had had very much contact with the others, but in times, it seemed like out of the whole Company, Fíli and Kíli were the only ones who weren’t pestering him with suggestions of reconciliation of the Ereborian nature. If anything, they had allowed Bilbo his weeks of convalescence without asking much of its cause, and for that he was eternally grateful.

In a way, Thorin’s name was a forbidden topic in their house: Bilbo knew that at least Fíli had to have some contact with him, considering his position as the next in line for the throne, but as far as he was aware, Kíli hadn’t spoken to his uncle since the day he got left behind. Even if Bilbo had chosen to say very little about what had went down in the morning following Smaug’s death, it was apparent that they had learned the truth from some other source. It made Bilbo wonder, from time to time, whether the two of them kept postponing their departure to Erebor because they feared it would corrupt them the same way it had done to their uncle. Even if the brothers hadn’t condemned Thorin’s actions out loud, they had made their opinion known by siding with Bilbo and the people of Lake-town, refusing to leave the city in its moment of need and actually helping with the aftermath.

Bilbo was under no illusion that Thorin wasn’t perfectly aware of their living arrangements and sometimes that made him think whether he actually blamed him for stealing the two-thirds of his remaining family. The idea raised some conflicting emotions, varying from deep hurt to dark satisfaction. He eventually made his peace with the fact, given that when it came to his feelings about Thorin, nothing was ever that simple.

As the days went on, Bilbo found himself witnessing the easy camaraderie shared by the two dwarven princes and the men they worked alongside with, knowing in his heart of hearts that to these people, Fíli and Kíli were now more the nobility they trusted and respected, than any other King Under the Mountain.

On his behalf, he only wished he could feel the same.

 

* * *

 

One morning Bilbo woke up to the sound of heavy boots marching and found the town to be full of unfamiliar dwarves. They seemed to populate every street corner and marketplace, eyeing Bilbo with keen interest as he made his way towards the town hall to acquire some sort of an explanation.

“They’re Dáin’s people, from the Iron Hills,” grunted Dwalin, who had come down from the Mountain to greet his arriving kin and was now standing on the town square, inspecting the arrivals. Compared to the last time Bilbo had seen him, he was now wearing a very expensive-looking piece of armor and seemed to have gotten a new set of tattoos across both of his arms; Bilbo couldn’t be sure, but one greatly resembled a familiar dragon in what could only be its moment of death. “Mostly miners, builders and carpenters - hardy folk.”

“What about the ones at the Blue Mountains?” Bilbo wondered; it seemed rather odd that Thorin’s people weren’t the first to arrive back to their reclaimed home.

“All in good time. Once the worst of the snow clears from the roads, more workers will come, maybe some traders or merchants as well. It’s too early to bring in any women or bairns, no matter what Glóin seems to think.” Dwalin let out a long-suffering sigh, muttering under his breath, “I swear, if I hear one more word about _‘the wonders of her auburn beard’_ … As if one lovesick numskull wasn’t bad enough.”

Bilbo let out a small laugh. “Really? Does someone else besides Glóin have a sweetheart at home then?”

That made Dwalin cast him a sidelong glance. For a moment they regarded each other in silence, and in that time, Bilbo’s mirth subsided completely. Then, Dwalin said slowly, “You have keen sight, Master Baggins, but sometimes I get the feeling you don’t see what’s important, unless it pokes you right in your eye.”

With that, he stomped away, taking the small army of dwarves with him as he went.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry - you want me to do _what_ , exactly?”

“To become Lake-town’s treasurer,” Bard repeated calmly. He had ambushed Bilbo during one of his afternoon strolls and was now slowly pacing next to him as they made their way back towards his former house. “Think about it: we need someone to watch over our finances as we put this town back to its feet, and that someone needs to have enough sense when it comes to understanding accounts, as well as the penmanship for writing them down.”

“But I haven’t the faintest when it comes to banking. I’m sure Glóin -“

“Ah, but you see, there lies the problem. After all the previous -“ at this point he seemed to have trouble finding the right word - “ _miscommunication_ we’ve had with our dwarven neighbors, I’d prefer it if our finances weren’t theirs to manage. Considering where the funds originated, it seems only fair that you should see to their proper use.”

“You’re asking the Company’s hired burglar to take care of your gold,” Bilbo repeated slowly. “You understand that, right?”

Bard simply patted him on the shoulder, his bright smile not wavering once. “I can’t think for a more honest and trustworthy person for the job.”

The truth was, that ever since his so-called heroics, Bilbo had been sort of… loitering around. Although he had kept a tiny sum of money to pay for his expenses, Bard had insisted early on that after everything he had done, Bilbo shouldn’t pay for anything. At the beginning of each week, a delivery of groceries was brought to their house, and with Fíli and Kíli managing their own, they definitely weren’t having any shortcomings.

It now dawned on Bilbo that while he had sat behind closed curtains, feeling woeful about everything and everyone around him, those very people had actually pulled together to provide him the luxury of his leisure, no matter how sullen and fruitless it had been. In his hurry to get on his high horse, he had proven himself to be no better than Thorin.

In a burst of sudden shame over his selfishness, he quickly accepted Bard's offer.

Bilbo soon learned that not knowing anything about banking wasn’t going to be a problem in the slightest. No, it was the fact that he didn’t have any knowledge about the things he was supposed to actually spend that money on.

“Delivery fees, builders’ commissions, shipment toll…” Bilbo tore his gaze away from the town’s financial records, bound in a great tome with leather covers, casting a desperate look at the others. “How on earth am I supposed to know what any of that means, let alone how much I’m expected to pay for it?”

“It’s really not that different from visiting the market -” reasoned Fíli, who was sitting across the table, peeling potatoes.

“- except that if you accidently lose all our money, you’ll be driven out of the town with pitchforks,” concluded Kíli, pointing him with a half-peeled carrot.

“Not - _helping_ ,” Bilbo wheezed, a little hysterically.

“Look, it’s just a question of getting to know what you’re up against. I’m sure nobody expects you to master this instantly. In that way, it’s much like sword fighting.”

“Which you’re still not very good at,” Kíli muttered under his breath.

Fíli promptly ignored his brother. “If it’s any consolation, based on your home, you know more about shopping and stocking than any of us.” He bent down to pick up another potato. “Around these parts, everyone is depended on the trade they make with this town. It means that they can’t ask for more than these people are capable of paying, right?”

For a moment Bilbo was blindsided by this piece of sudden wisdom, and most of all, its source. Kíli was in no way unaffected by the whole ordeal, but it was Fíli who had really come into his own because of it. In the course of just few months he seemed to have gone through a lot of growth, and not just regarding his beard, which was now almost up to his chest. A scar, much like Dwalin’s (courtesy of a flying piece of wood) now graced his left brow, and his eyes had taken a steely look. Sometimes the mere sight of him reminded Bilbo so much of Thorin that it made his heart ache.

“Wait,” Bilbo stammered, suddenly realizing something Fíli’s previous comment had indicated. “Are you saying we’re _having trade_ with Erebor? I thought -“

Fíli actually barked a laugh. “Uncle’s stubborn, not stupid. He knows that a newly founded kingdom can’t survive without any supplies - or food for that matter. By paying for those, he can reassure himself that he isn’t giving any of our ancestors’ gold away for free.”

Bilbo didn’t comment on that; across the table, he and Kíli shared a dark look of mutual understanding.

It now dawned on Bilbo that no matter how hard he tried, he was bound to find himself connected to Thorin in one way or the other. Should he fail in this new task, it would mean that he might actually be giving too much of the town’s hard-earned wealth back to the Mountain’s greedy mouth. Bilbo recognized the utter pettiness of that thought, but the past weeks had hardened his heart and now, he found that he was no longer above such wiliness.

Surely managing the town’s assets couldn’t be that hard. Whereas the Tookish side of him had always been the adventurer, the sensible Baggins was yet to have its turn to shine. Like he once had heard the call of the road ahead and dashed off to unknown, the lull of something much more trivial now seized him with the same vigor.

With this task of preciseness and uttermost organize at hand, Bilbo rolled his sleeves and got to work.

 

* * *

 

By his second month as the supervisor of finances, Bilbo had figured out the current rate for every piece of timber, stone and building material available. He knew the price both the elves and the dwarves asked for their makings, and the best ways to haggle both parties – which usually included only mentioning how the other had asked for less.

The days when he had slept until noon were now gone: between being there to receive incoming shipments from Mirkwood at the crack of dawn (elves apparently had no sense of time and seemed to prefer working while gazing at stars) and greeting dwarves who usually arrived at nightfall, Bilbo found himself working through the nights and sleeping during the days. Seeing actual daylight had become a rare treat, especially now that the winter was fully upon them and the days were short. The golden light of mid-day sun was replaced by the shimmer of gold, as Bilbo sat counting coins in the darkness of the town’s treasury.

Because it was so cold, he opted to wearing at least three layers of clothing with a fur lining, and Ori was kind enough to send him yet another pair of open-ended mittens of his own making. To his amazement, Bilbo found out that his  _mithril_  shirt actually kept the heat from escaping his body better than any other undershirt of his and (with some begrudge) took to wearing it under his layers; even if he tried his best to stop it, from time to time his fingers still slipped to caress its surface like a totem.

He knew that he was well past his usual grooming habits even before he looked in the mirror and found his hair to be almost long enough to reach his shoulders. Dori, who was apparently responsible for the refurbishment of Erebor’s textiles and therefor visiting the town’s seamstresses, had even offered to teach him some braiding techniques. He declined kindly: while his head was so filled with numbers, Bilbo had little time to think about anything else, let alone his appearance.

One early morning Bilbo was returning from his meeting with Bard, regarding the funds to finance the repairs of the main bridge. He took the front stairs, walked in, and - seeing a flash of dark hair from the corner of his eye - started talking.

“Kíli, could you remind me that we need to order some more nails from Erebor. It seems that we’re running low.”

“I’ll see to that,” said a familiar voice, that most definitely didn’t belong to Kíli.

Bilbo froze.

Thorin was standing by the window, now recognizable as he had turned his face towards the room. The cold morning light did a ridiculously effective job of outlining his noble features, and as always, Bilbo was left to wonder if this was something that simply came naturally to him, considering his upbringing, or whether it was instinctive of Thorin to enter new surroundings with the sole intention of spotting the best place for majestic posing.

Much like Fíli's, his beard was now longer and in his hair he had a collection of new braids. His dark clothes weren’t necessarily the most noticeable by first glance and he definitely wasn’t wearing a crown, although he must have one by now; Bilbo was oddly shocked to realize that he may have missed Thorin’s coronation - something he had secretly wished to be there to witness, if only to see him for once receive the royal treatment in all its finery.

All in all, he looked healthy and strong. If Bilbo had hoped that their time apart had diminished the effect Thorin’s appearance had on him, then he was sorely mistaken: it had been almost four months since their last meeting and still it instantly felt like all the air had fled the room.  Bilbo suddenly feared he was going to be sick; now more than ever, he wished he still had his Ring, so he could just slip it on and escape, all dignity be damned.

Eventually, he forced his voice to work. “If this is about the roof tiles I ordered last week, you could have just sent someone,” he croaked wryly.

Thorin swiftly trashed all his hopes of idle small talk. “I did not come because of some tiles."

Bilbo had to roll his eyes at that; _Really?_ He got his feet moving again and unloaded the contents of his bag on the table, revealing some more quills and bottles of ink.

One of the bottles went loose and rolled across the table. Before it reached the edge, Thorin stepped forward to pick it up. “I hear you’ve become quite the trader,” he said slowly, weighing the bottle in his hand. “If your hair gets any longer, and with the hours you keep, someone might almost mistake you for a dwarf.”

Bilbo recognized the joke – or was it to be taken as some backhanded compliment? Either way, as much as the mere notion of Thorin actually saying such a thing affected him, he wasn’t in the mood for games. “Well, seeing as you once had the courtesy to call me a _grocer_ …”

The memory of something so long ago was agonizing. He left the end of the sentence unsaid and moved to take off his heavy winter cloak, hanging it by the door. Afterwards, he wasn’t sure what he should be doing with his hands, and before he even knew it, had slipped them inside his waistcoat pockets, only to find them both naturally empty. After that, he decided to busy them by making some tea.

As he was filling the kettle with water, he could feel Thorin’s eyes drilling holes at the back of his head. They were still standing on opposite sides of the room, but even that proximity was too much for Bilbo’s nerves. It seemed like their past fight had been a dam breaking and now, bitterness filled the riverbeds of Bilbo’s mind, as he found himself angry for entirely different reasons. It was as if there was an actual hole inside his chest that no amount of coin-counting could hope to fill.

Betrayed; that was the word that kept rattling inside his skull, like a caged bird. From the moment he had faced down Azog, he had been nothing but faithful, believing in the best of Thorin even when everyone else - Thorin himself included - had thought otherwise. He had put on offer both the Ring and his own dignity, only to be robbed of both.

Alas, the truth now seemed so simple: the Thorin Oakenshield Bilbo had been so willing to follow was gone, buried beneath the heavy weight of the Arkenstone above his throne and all the ghosts it brought in its wake. He now felt foolish for thinking that the danger would be over once the dragon was dead and Thorin back on his throne, when in reality, exactly that had led to his doom.

Maybe it truly was the inner dwarf within him that had now surfaced, but he was suddenly much more open to the idea that a friendship once lost was indeed lost forever.

 _I chose to save your heart and for what,_ Bilbo thought; _so that you could rip mine from my chest?_

Carefully, Thorin made an attempt to start his way around the table. “Bilbo -“

“Nails!” The word sprang from Bilbo’s mouth like an arrow shot from a bow. In the heavy silence that followed, he cleared his throat. “We need more nails. Could you make sure that those get delivered? We’ll pay accordingly, of course.”

For the longest of time, they regarded each other in silence. As they did, Bilbo could see that Thorin wasn’t so impeccable after all; his skin looked pale and there were dark shadows under his eyes, like something was keeping him awake despite his newly-found royal bliss. Thorin opened his mouth, but not a sound came out.

Eventually, after a heavy pause, he finally spoke. “As you wish.”

And then he was gone.

In his wake he seemed to take all the anger that had been coiling inside Bilbo’s gut. He sank down in the nearest chair and stared at his hands, finding to his surprise that they were shaking. The same feeling that had been haunting him for the past months now fell upon him stronger than ever: that he was slowly unraveling from within, like he was nothing but a ball of yarn and were the other end of that thread was tied to, he simply didn’t know anymore.

From the window, he could see the shadow of the Mountain, lapsing heavy and long over the town.

The tea kettle abandoned, he then went and cut his hair, scrubbed his hands and face clean with soap until they were rubbed raw, and lastly, tore his off his _mithril_ shirt, stuffing it at the very bottom of his backpack.

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

The remaining winter months passed uneventfully, finally making way for spring. The town came alive from its long hibernation: with the lake now free of ice, an armada of boats and ferries drifted through the canals and across the serene waters around them, while the air was filled with the sound of bells and the laughter of children, joyful at long last. With the last of the town’s restorations nearly completed and all its citizens well fed, Bard had already turned his attention towards Dale and had taken to wandering its streets with Fíli and Kíli, the three of them planning in sync as they went.

As happy as Bilbo was to witness such hard-earned tranquility, he found himself still adrift. The need for some kind of conclusion weighed heavy on his mind and - given the current state of things - he decided to lean towards the easier kind of relief to achieve.

It was actually Glóin who first approached Bilbo about his potential plans to return to the Shire. “I’m leaving to bring my wife and son to Erebor from the Blue Mountains,” he told Bilbo, much like Dwalin had once said that he wished to do. “Seeing as we’re taking the same road, maybe we should travel together?”

Once Bilbo had happily agreed, it was only the matter of breaking the news to Bard, and to Fíli and Kíli as well.

On his part Bard told him that he understood why Bilbo felt the need to leave, but said that the town would be sad to see him go. “You must come and visit Dale once it’s been finished,” he said. “Who knows - maybe we even name a street after you.”

Bilbo was little surprised to learn that even Fíli and Kíli raised no objections, although Kíli persistently kept referring to their separation being ‘only temporary’ in nature. Bilbo didn’t argue, nor did he give any specific date for his return or the manner he would be returning, given that he himself had none of them yet figured out.

“What about you two?” Bilbo asked, when Kíli was off to fetch them some supper and it was just him and Fíli sitting around the table. The continued well-being of the princes was something he was anxious to ensure, given how much they had come to mean to him. “Are you staying here?”

Fíli surprised him by confessing, “No, I think it’s time we as well go home.” Bilbo couldn’t help but notice how his lips twitched on the last word. Still, his next smile was entirely genuine. “Did you know that Thorin has actually decided to appoint me and Kíli as ambassadors?”

Bilbo nearly choked on his own tongue. _“Really?”_

“Yes. He says he doesn’t have the time to handle the foreign affairs right now, and seeing as we’re already so friendly with the other races, we might as well do it.” Lowering his voice and smirking, Fíli continued, “Personally, I think it’s because Mother’s been writing that she wants to come here and Uncle fears that she’ll have a fit if she finds out that he has been neglecting us this whole winter.”

 

* * *

 

Since Bilbo wasn’t officially leaving for good, saying any goodbyes seemed rather pointless. But apparently word about his departure had gotten out and on the day they were to set sail, a familiar group of dwarves was there to see him go; even Dwalin had arrived, although he kept insisting that he was only in town for some ‘official business’. Still, when it came his turn to say his farewells, he pulled Bilbo into a one-armed hug that nearly cracked his ribs.

Despite the great effort everyone made about concealing it, it soon became apparent who was missing from their ranks. When their boat was departing from the port, Bilbo firmly kept his eyes directed forward; the effort was rather pointless, given how well he knew the sight and shape of the Mountain, and how often it still haunted his dreams.

It had actually been Kíli who had promised to arrange them a guide to take them safely through Mirkwood. Apparently Bilbo was now a ‘person of significant importance’ and therefor getting him safely home was more akin to mutual duty shared by all the races than simpler courtesy. Despite this, Bilbo was still surprised to learn that it was actually King Thranduil’s son Legolas who was awaiting them at the shore.

On his part, Bilbo bore no grudges and was even pleased to see him; Glóin, not so much.

Three days later, when they finally emerged from the other side of the forest, Bilbo was ready to hope that for the sake of the newly achieved peace between the elves and dwarves, the two of them should never meet again.

This time the path across the mountain range was much easier. They rested for few days in Rivendell, much to Glóin’s continued displeasure, and even Bilbo couldn’t say he was entirely enjoying himself. After all, Rivendell was the one place he had once thought he could spend his remaining days and feel nothing but contentment, but now, the valley was but a contrast to everything he had come to appreciate. It didn’t help that Elrond - with his supposed gift of foresight - kept giving him looks that seemed almost sympathetic in nature. All in all, when it came the time to leave, Bilbo was eager to pack his belongings and leave the noble pity party behind him.

Without any delays or unhappy surprises, they eventually reached the Great Eastern Road. Glóin proved that dwarves truly had a long memory when it came to buried treasures, when he all but pulled Bilbo aside from the main road and led him to the familiar cave by the hillside. It wasn’t until the still-lingering smell of the trolls hit Bilbo’s nose that he remembered the riches they once had left behind them. “Long-time deposit indeed,” he muttered, as Glóin merrily started digging the ground.

Once it became apparent just how many valuable things there really were for just the two of them to share, Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder if there was someone back at the Blue Mountains in more dire need of the money.

Glóin was quick to dispatch him of these doubts. “You have fed enough hungry mouths as it is - I suggest you turn your attention towards your own stomach for a change.”

In the end he persuaded Bilbo to take the small chest of gold they had buried, if only to feel charitable as he packed as much of the cave’s other riches on his pony as it could possibly carry.

They didn’t part ways until little after reaching the Three Farthing Stone at the heart of the Shire, from where on out Glóin was continuing westwards, towards the mountains. With the promise that Bilbo would soon come to see his family, they bid their farewell and Glóin rode off, his saddlebags making a slight jingle in his wake.

Bilbo was left to make his way home alone. It was still early morning and as he rode through the sleepy streets of Hobbiton, he could see how the earliest sellers were only now heading towards the marketplace to set up their shops. With each step closer to home, the sense of urgency was drained from his body.

For the first time in months, it felt like he could breathe freely.

 

* * *

 

For days after his return, he was completely at loss. Everyday objects (despite their proportions finally being back to proper) like watering cans, napkins and rakes were now bizarre and strange; the local inn filled with drunken laughter almost off-putting.

It took Bilbo some time to learn that it wasn’t anything around him that had changed so comprehensively, but him. In his absence, everything had carried on like clockwork and now he was the faulty piece that had fallen out of the machinery. That analogy was amplified by the notion that the Shire’s peak of engineering was the old mill - something Bilbo was sure the dwarves would have found about as functional as a child’s toy.

One of the worst things was the sense of abandonment. For the past year or so he had always slept in close quarters with at least two other people, and Lake-town had been cramped and its streets narrow, the air filled with the many noises of its inhabitants. Now, all the open space and solitude of his rooms paradoxically made him choke.

Bilbo tried to cope by doing familiar things, like picking flowers and planting new seeds his garden, only to realize that all the flowers he had chosen were associated with mourning, and that he had forgotten to water what he had sown.

To ease his restlessness, he took to walking across the far borders of the Shire on starlit nights, and sometimes during these nightly wanderings he came across various groups of elves, on their way to West. Now more than ever he could understand the invisible pull of a distant place, given how he felt that a piece of him still lingered across the mountain range in the east.

Still, despite feeling rather like a spirit haunting the eerie hallways of his home, it could have been worse. He knew it would take some time for things to settle (that is, if he meant to stay) but eventually, they would. Being back in the Shire had actually helped to sooth something inside him, healing wounds he hadn't even been aware of. Now, he was slowly beginning to see some of the past events from a whole different perspective.

Naturally it was Gandalf who finally offered the most crucial piece of the puzzle. Bilbo had been back for three weeks, when he returned from the market, only to find the Wizard waiting in his garden, smoking. It didn’t take long of him to fill up his own pipe and join him.

As they sat there, Gandalf kept telling various tales from his latest travels and Bilbo listened politely, although most of the names and places were meaningless to him.

It wasn’t until Gandalf began to ask questions closer to home when Bilbo started paying attention. His inquiries were mostly about this and that, but they all seemed to have one common agenda: to make sure Bilbo was settling down nicely.

”Good, that’s good to hear,” Gandalf hummed, after hearing that Bilbo was considering whether he should try his hand in replacing his old chimney. “It’ll do you well, I think, to be back here. After all, there’s no place like home.”

Under his breath, Bilbo snorted. _That’s not what you were saying when you all but pushed me out of my door and after a dragon,_ he thought.

If he also had some differing ideas about what would be good for him, then, well.

Out loud, he said, “I appreciate your concern, I really do, but why am I getting the feeling that there’s a bigger reason for all this questioning?”

For once, Gandalf had the nerve to look a little ashamed of himself. “It’s only natural for me to worry,” he scoffed. “We can’t forget that you carried the One Ring, however briefly, until it was ripped away from you - quite violently, I might add. That could have easily left some lasting effects on your character.”

Bilbo nearly choked since he had just taken another puff from his pipe. Then he had to pinch the bridge of his nose, to stop himself from speaking plainly. After an exercise in self-control, he finally managed, “So you knew this whole time that there could be some… side-effects? After the Ring got destroyed. And you didn’t care to mention it?”

“Oh, but I did,” Gandalf said, matter-of-factly. “Why do you think I was so keen to show you all the good your actions brought to your friends? I thought that might’ve helped you to rediscover the simple joys of life, rather than you lingered in the shadows, thinking only of the things that were lost.”

“Right,” Bilbo said faintly. “ _Right._ ”

Suddenly everything felt crooked again. There was series of hollow clanks echoing inside Bilbo’s skull, growing ever louder, that reminded him of the sound of a hammer when it made contact with an anvil. To his astonishment, he discovered that the noise originated from his right temple, where his finger was now furiously tapping against it on its own account. “Right,” he echoed once more, willing himself to stop.

Gandalf actually lowered his pipe, casting him a worried look. “Is something the matter, Bilbo?”

In that instant he was overcome by the most childish impulse to violently push the Wizard down from the bench and dash away as quickly as he could. He might have run like a scared rabbit and not stopped until well after Bree, if it weren’t for the sudden weight of his heart, now approximately the size of a mountain.

In the end, Bilbo only meekly held up his tobacco pouch. “Care for another pipe-full?”

 

* * *

 

Autumn was nearing and his birthday was coming up.

Whereas Bilbo was in no mood for celebration, he knew that if he ever wanted to earn back the trust of his neighbors and relatives alike, this was his chance to do it. In his long absence, most of the locals had believed him dead and now that he had returned from beyond grave, many of his former friends were angry at him for not sending any word about his whereabouts and refused to believe that anyone could get themselves into such trouble that they weren’t able to write a simple letter. Luckily, if there was one thing that could make hobbits forget any sort of grudges, it was the promise of a good party.

With the help of his newly acquired funds, Bilbo knew he should be able to purchase such presents that they would be remembered in the years to come; already in his mind he was planning on writing to Bifur, asking for some of his toys to be delivered.

It was two weeks prior to the date, when Bilbo first acknowledged that organizing a hobbit party might actually be considered harder than running the finances of one town. It had been a sorry day from the moment on when he had had the misfortune to run into Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who somehow seemed to have gotten it to her head that Bilbo had no intention to invite her and her husband to his party, and refused to believe it when Bilbo tried to explain that the post must have simply lost their invite.

(In truth, Bilbo hadn’t bothered to write any, knowing that the Sackville-Bagginses would come no matter what, whether they were invited or not.)

The later part of his day had then consistent of various party-related preparations, from visiting the bakery and other providers to making sure that the brewery had gotten his order, all the while being pestered by other hobbits who were still waiting for their invites to be delivered. When he finally dragged himself home, it was already dinner time, but he was too exhausted to begin to cook anything and simply crawled in his bed for a late nap.

At some point he thought he heard knocking from his door, but reasoned that it was probably yet another overeager well-wisher, and went back to sleep.

He was woken up by a loud noise that seemed to originate from within the house. Between one shaky breath and another, his body forgot the passing months of idleness and was back on high alert. In his disoriented state, it didn’t matter that he was back in Hobbiton; when his pulse picked up, he couldn’t be sure if it was from fear or excitement. A quick glance out of the window told Bilbo that it was already dark outside, and as he fumbled around in his bedroom, he was forced to do so without any light. Finally, he found what he was looking for and slipped out of the door.

As he was silently tiptoeing across the hallway, he could hear the sound of much heavier footsteps coming from the parlour. He continued to make his way through the kitchen, tightening his hold on Sting’s handle; the serene blade reassured him that at least his house wasn’t overrun by orcs.

When he reached the adjoining door, Bilbo stopped and prepared his body for the attack. Then he all but barged into the room, his feet quick and silent, and in an instant, had his sword pressed against the throat of his enemy.

“Not bad. But you need to work on your breathing,” said Thorin with a wry smile. “I have known ponies that were more discreet in their approach.”

Bilbo opened his mouth, only to close it after no words came out. He may have repeated this procedure a couple of times, until Thorin sighted and asked - “May I?” - before carefully pushing the blade aside.

He extracted the weapon from Bilbo’s hand and placed it on the nearby table; in order to do so, he had to push aside a pile of envelopes. Despite feeling rather like he had finally lost his mind for good, Bilbo couldn’t help but take note of the chaotic nature of their surroundings. The place was a disarray of books lying around and all the party-related things cluttering every surface, and once again, Bilbo was wearing his ratty old robe. Even if everything else in the world had now changed, apparently some things were destined to stay the same.

Bilbo’s brain finally kicked into motion. “What on earth are you doing here, Thorin?” he asked; it came out nearly as a whine.

“I’m about to escort my sister Dís from the Blue Mountains,” Thorin explained reasonably, like they were standing in his halls rather than Bilbo’s. “You didn’t answer when I knocked, so I assumed you were out and decided to let myself in.”

“No, I meant as in _here_ \- in Hobbiton!” Then, Bilbo’s mind backtracked. “Wait - did you get lost? _Again?_ ”

Thorin scowled, seemingly deciding not to dignify the comment with an answer (that, or he really was lost). As Bilbo watched, he turned and then kneeled by the fireplace, adding another log into the fire, perhaps a little too casually. _I bet he wants to smack himself every time a servant now does that for him_ , Bilbo found himself thinking; Thorin’s hard-learned independency combined with his desire to be recognized as worthy of his title most certainly made him an interesting ruler. Bilbo only wished that he had been there to witness it in person.

He still wasn’t entirely convinced if he was dreaming, and if so, whether this was a nightmare or one of the good kind of dreams. It was entirely unfair that Thorin should come to his home and turn his world upside down once, but to do it _twice_ \- well, Bilbo simply wasn’t built to endure such things.

In his moment of despair, Bilbo decided to seek guidance from the one thing he knew would always provide it.

“Well, er, I was just about to eat dinner,” he said. “If you’re not in a hurry, maybe we could…”

“I have the time,” Thorin announced at once. Then, a rather hilarious expression crossed his face and he said, as courteously as he seemed to manage, “In fact, nothing would please me more.”

Bilbo made the effort to set the table in the parlour by the fire, and then changed his clothes into something more formal; the look of amusement on Thorin’s face when he saw the golden buttons of his new vest made him roll his eyes (“Oh, _stop_ it.”).

As they ate, Bilbo was desperate to find something to fill the silence with and found himself blabbering in length about the party arrangements. Naturally, Thorin was displeased to learn that he hadn’t been made aware of the date and as such, hadn’t thought to bring a gift. Bilbo’s attempts to explain how _giving_ presents - not receiving them - was actually the local custom weren’t really that successful.

Once Bilbo had run out of different types of pies and ales to describe, Thorin easily picked up the thread of the conversation by giving him greetings from all the members of the Company and telling what each of them was up to.

Apparently Fíli (under the supervision of Balin) was ruling in Thorin’s absence, watching over the rebuilding of Dale now that it had started. “Kíli helps, when he isn’t too busy running around with those damned elves.”

Despite the curse, there was hardly any true irritation in Thorin’s voice. “You seem awfully calm about that,” Bilbo couldn’t help but to comment.

Thorin shrugged. “The captain of the guard saved his life,” he admitted, voicing something Bilbo had long since learned. “She’s a capable warrior and more willing to see the errors of her kin than others. I’ve made my peace with it.”

As was expected, Dwalin was the head of the royal guard. Bofur and Bombur were in charge of the handful of mines that had been recently reopened, and Bifur was running a woodshop. Dori still had his hands full of drapes, and by the looks of it, seemed to be the designer behind the royal wardrobe Thorin was now wearing on his person. Ori had made his home in the library and Óin was an orderly at the infirmary, whereas Glóin and his family were set to return with Thorin and Dís.

“What about Nori?” Bilbo asked, realizing whose name was missing from the list.

“We made him the head of communications. Officially he’s in charge of the well-being of the ravens. Balin and Dori both agreed it was the one place where he was least tempted to steal anything.” Something was now tugging at the corners of Thorin’s lips. “Although I _have_ heard rumors about a flock of birds that keeps taking food from the men…”

After they had eaten, they left the dishes as they were and went outside into the garden, where Bilbo decided to introduce Thorin to some local pipe-weed. As the night grew longer, more lights were being lit down in the village and from somewhere nearby, they could hear the faint sound of music being played. For a moment Bilbo could forget the matter at hand, focusing entirely on enjoying the rare moment in all its simplicity.

It was Thorin who finally spoke first. “The view is quite spectacular. I understand why you had such a hard time leaving all this behind.”

And oddly, it was this simple admission that made it feel like a spell had been broken; in that instant, every peaceful thing around Bilbo seemed to lose their meaning, revealing them as the shallow substitutes they were.

“I miss the noise - the sound of the boats and the bells. Here, it’s just crickets.” Once he had started, Bilbo found he had hard time stopping. “I miss that ridiculously big bed I had at Bard’s and I miss having something worthwhile to do with my time. I miss the sound of your nephews always making such racket in the stairs and that one step that creaked like it was moments away from coming off. And as much as I hate to admit it, I even miss that wretched Mountain, blocking the view from my window.”

During his jeremiad, Thorin had watched him closely. Now, as Bilbo finally ran out of words and he ended his list in a heavy swallow, Thorin appeared to be making his mind about something. Then he asked, his voice heavy with meaning, “And is that all you miss?”

By now, Bilbo felt like he had done his fair share of hiding his true emotions. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face Thorin properly. “You know fully well that it isn’t.”

His confession was followed by a moment of mutual bafflement. Bilbo wasn’t sure how he should feel about any of it and kept only blinking his eyes owlishly, biting his lip.

Thorin was the first to find his voice. “The way we left things,” he whispered breathlessly. “I didn’t dare to hope…”

It definitely looked like the cat was finally out of the bag. Relieved that they at least were now acknowledging the feeling that had once simmered between them, Bilbo said, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about that. It was immature of me. I - I guess I wasn’t really myself,” he admitted, remembering what Gandalf had told him about the Ring.

As much as he longed for the things he had left behind him, remembering the person he had been at the time filled him with this sense of wrongness, like he had spent the entire winter in the claws of some inflammation. In many ways his anger towards Thorin had been justified, but that didn’t mean that it hadn’t been somewhat influenced by outside forces. In that regard, what had come over him after he lost the Ring wasn’t that far from gold sickness.

Thorin then left out a long-suffering sigh, like something physical was being lifted from his shoulders. “It was quite the miserable few months, but at least it gave me time to clear my head. It wasn’t until recently that I realized how easily I regained Erebor. At the time it felt like I lost nothing, while gaining everything - or so I thought. Yet another example of my blindness.” He gave Bilbo a rueful smile. “I set out to reclaim a home for my people and in the end, got blinded by greed. The day we were delivering your share of the treasure, I felt like some common crook, paying blood money to those poor people. In that way, I was no better than Smaug.”

Thorin had always had such talent for judging others, while simultaneously casting himself the heaviest of blame. At long last Bilbo was reminded of how often he had wanted to strangle him for it; in addition to that, he now wanted to silence him by completely different means.

Suppressing the urge, Bilbo hurried to say, “No, Thorin, it was me - I was being an arrogant git. Yes, you were wrong, but I think there was a time when you were ready to admit it and I pushed you away. I was feeling so sorry for myself that I had to stay angry at you in order to – to manage anything, really.”

“So you decided to run a whole kingdom to show me you could do it better, because you wanted to get back at me?” Now, Thorin was clearly amused. “You - _and_ my nephews.”

Bilbo blinked a few times more. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“I don’t blame you. In that way, I like to believe I’ve learned from the mistakes of my ancestors.” With a lower voice, he added, “Also, Balin may have knocked some sense into my head and I think there’s a dent in the throne to prove it...”

Then - like it was something he had done many times before - Thorin set aside his pipe and proceeded in taking Bilbo’s hands into his own. A collection of thoughts ran through Bilbo’s mind, all of them different variations of hysterical. _Oh dear, this is it, isn’t it?_ And then, on a completely different vein; _He always did have such warm hands._

The dephts of his eyes deep enough for Bilbo to drown in, Thorin held his gaze and told him, “Thanks to all your efforts, I now have the chance to make sure that Erebor thrives once more under dwarven rule,” he murmured. “But you should know that if it weren’t for my position, I would wish stay here with you. I don’t care if that meant that I should become a farmer or that I would have to tinker toys to sell at the local fair - I would do it all gladly.”

“While I appreciate the thought, I’m not actually _that_ poor,” Bilbo stammered, peeved. “For goodness’ sake, Thorin, just because I don’t have an entire collection of furniture made out of gold -“

He reasonably stopped there. This was definitely not how he had envisioned this to go - but then again, maybe it was because he had never dared to imagine anything beyond the act of simple survival. He was never given any guidelines on how to react when one offered to give up his whole kingdom for his sake.

Luckily Thorin didn’t seem to think the moment was indispensably ruined; if anything, he was now smiling rather bemusedly. Bilbo took comfort in thinking that maybe that was his way of showing that he, too, had been nervous about the confession.

Unfortunately Bilbo was now more profoundly confused than ever. He wasn’t sure where Thorin’s words left them; no matter what his heart’s desire might be, he was still riding off come dawn.

Despite this, Thorin clearly wasn’t pushing the issue. For once, he seemed perfectly happy to just sit there in silence and wait for Bilbo to finish his smoking, covering his hand gently with his.

Before long, they ventured back inside. Bilbo excused himself by saying that he was fetching them ale from one of his wine cellars and then hastily made his escape. Moments later, he became aware that he had been staring at the same spot of wall for quite some time and now, beer from the barrel’s tap was running across the floor and lapping at his toes. Without making much effort to clean up the mess, he slowly returned back upstairs, the drinks now forgotten.

Out of all rooms, Bilbo found Thorin in his study, staring at the opposite wall. More precisely, at the map that was hanging on that wall - the same map that had once belonged to Thráin and which Thorin himself had shoved in Bilbo’s hand in his moment of sorrowful frustration.

Bilbo had never really asked for any permission to keep it; he had simply taken it. Maybe that truly made him a thief.

But there it was, and now Thorin was looking at it with an avid interest. The expression on his face was unfathomable, and Bilbo found himself questioning what it was that seeing the map here, on his wall, made him think. Perhaps he wondered why - of all the riches he had been offered - this was the one thing Bilbo had decided to cherish above all else.

If that was the case, then little did Thorin know that Bilbo himself had been wondering the same thing, without coming to any sort of proper conclusion.

Only now, he suddenly did.

When he was a child, Bilbo had always been thrilled to be shown the detailed maps his father had made of the nearby areas. As he grew older, he had learned how it had actually been the maps that first brought his parents together: Bungo had drawn them based on Belladonna’s descriptions of the places she had seen on her wanderings, much like he later drew the plans for Bag End. Even now that his parents were gone, Bilbo felt like he could still find them both in those maps, that being one of the many reasons he took such an avid interest in them in the first place.

And that’s what Thorin’s map was to him: the means to find his way back to something that before now had seemed lost forever.

Before his courage could fail him, Bilbo marched in front of Thorin, took his face in his hands with Tookish determination and kissed him. He tasted like Longbottom Leaf and something else entirely, and for a moment, all the noises in Bilbo’s head went blissfully quiet.

Finally he forced himself to pull away. “I want to come back to Erebor,” Bilbo said. “That is, if it’s alright with you?”

Thorin smiled then, a dazzling expression that lit up his whole face, making the corners of his eyes crinkle in delight. Bilbo decided that he liked it very much indeed; in the future, he ought to make it his mission to make Thorin smile like that as often as possible.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you spot any obvious typos, do kindly point them out so I can correct them. English isn’t actually my first language, so I’m sure there are some mistakes to be found.


End file.
